3rd Times A Charm
by theriversongwho
Summary: John's been depressed since Sherlock's 'death'. Years have passed and he still hasn't recovered. He wants to end it all and join his best friend. Unbeknownst to him, Sherlock is planning on revealing the truth soon, but will John Watson live long enough to learn the truth?


_It's been two years since John saw Sherlock jump to his death. This weekend will be the three-year anniversary of Sherlock's death._

"So, John, tell me about the dreams," his psychiatrist sat back, crossing her legs.

"Dreams? More like nightmares," John scoffed, staring at his hands.

"John, you know what I meant. Tell me about them."

John licked his lips, his throat suddenly feeling dry. "It always starts out with Sherlock sitting in the couch in front of me. …We get into an argument about something stupid, sometimes about a case he's working on, other times about his little habit… Suddenly, he asks me if I believe him or Moriarty. I want to scream 'I BELIEVE YOU!' but my voice fails me, and he looks at me with pain in his eyes. He runs out, and I go after him…. We're suddenly standing on the building which he jumped from. He's standing at the edge, and I'm running to him. "

John cleared his throat, and stared out the big window. "After what feels like miles, I get close to him, but he jumps, and I try to grab his coat, or something to pull him up by, but my fingers brush by, and he falls to his death…"

John quickly blinked away the tears, staring anywhere but at his psychiatrist.

"John," she murmured softly, leaning forward, "You do realize that it wasn't your fault, right? You didn't push Sherlock, did you?"

John shook his head. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to be here. He just wanted to be home.

_What home? You no longer have a home. You go back to that empty flat, the flat you used to share with your best mate. Ever since he died, that stopped being your home. Coldness greets you when you enter, and darkness consumes you when you stay. Face it John, nothing good ever happens to you because you don't deserve it._

"John, you have to let yourself grieve over the loss. If you need to cry, then cry. Don't hold back because you feel guilty." She placed her arm lightly on his shoulder, and patted it. "I'm sorry to say that we are out of time. Think about what I said. See you next week."

It was always hard to walk into that empty flat. 221B held such bittersweet memories for him. Sometimes, he swore that he saw Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, but then he'd turn around and there would be no one there. Every single time this happened, John felt like an idiot for getting his hopes up, then having them crushed. Sometimes he even went as far as to imagine that this was all a dream, and he would wake up to find Sherlock playing the violin, or throwing knives at the wall.

Where there was beautiful music before was now filled with an eerie silence. The flat was dark and cold, but everything was exactly as Sherlock had left it almost three years ago. John refused to get rid of Sherlock's belongings, no matter what everyone said. They were all he had left of Sherlock, and no one would take that away from him.

In a dazed state, John made his way into Sherlock's bedroom and fell to his knees in front of the bed. He put his head down against the bed sheets, and began to weep.

"I miss you Sherlock…. I am so sorry for not being able to save you…. I was a horrible friend…. " He pressed his face against the sheets, muffling his cries. "IT'S NOT FAIR! I LOVED YOU, AND I NEVER GOT TO TELL YOU! I MISS YOU, SHERLOCK HOLMES!...You were my everything, and now I am left with nothing…"

Sherlock's scent was long gone by now, but John could still smell Sherlock in these sheets. He always closed his eyes and pictured Sherlock on the bed, and almost made himself believe that Sherlock was merely inches away from him. He would reach out to touch Sherlock, but reality would set in, and once again, he was crushed.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock…. I'm so, very sorry….." The words kept repeating in John's head, long into the hours of the night until he finally fell into a restless sleep.

It was Saturday, the third year anniversary of Sherlock's death. At first, it felt like any other day to John, until he remembered the date. He didn't want to get out of bed, couldn't muster the energy to do so. Even after three years, his heart was laden with guilt and sorrow.

_John, you HAVE TO get up. Do it for Sherlock. You're supposed to take flowers to his grave. You've done it for the past two years, you can do it now._

He sighed and dragged himself out of bed. He showered, got dressed, and managed to grab a bite to eat before leaving. He wasn't thinking, just acting in a mechanical fashion.

Before he knew it, he was standing in front of Sherlock's grave with flowers in his arms and tears in his eyes. "H-Hi Sherlock. It's John again. It's been three years since you left us, and I can honestly say that this open wound doesn't heal over time. People say that time heals all wounds, but sometimes I feel like each day is more unbearable than the one before. I miss you." John closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "One of the worst things is the what ifs- What if I could have said something to convince you not to jump? What if I would have told you that I love you? What if I would have gotten there a few seconds earlier?"

He kneeled down and gently placed the flowers on the ground. "I am so sorry for not being able to help you. It's all my fault. " He bowed his head, a few tears falling onto the flowers. "I wish I could have just one more day with you so I could finally tell you all those things left unsaid. I never told you that you were my best mate, or that you helped me with my PTSD. I never emphasized how much I cared about you, or how much I appreciated your violin playing skills. I never hugged you, or told you how much you truly meant to me. Without you, I am lost."

John lightly touched the gravestone,. His vision was blurry because of the tears, and for a second, the headstone blurred together, and it looked like Sherlock was standing in front of him. "I'm forgetting you more and more each day,, and that's not right. Sometimes, I can't even remember what color your eyes were, or how warm your hand felt against mine. Sometimes, I even forget you completely, and find myself enjoying something. It disgusts me how easily I can forget someone who meant so much to me. I can barely remember you know Sherlock, and I'd rather die before letting you die from my memory."

Sherlock woke up feeling great. For the first time in three years, he had something to look forward to. Today was the day he would reveal everything to John! He knew John wouldn't be very happy with him at first, but the man had a kind heart, and Sherlock knew he would be forgiven once he got the chance to explain the whole situation.

He'd overslept, but that was no problem. Today nothing could bring him down. He quickly got through his morning routine, making sure to look extra nice for John.

Once he got to the graveyard, he saw that John had already been here. There were fresh flowers there, no surprise, but also a little note attached. That was peculiar. John usually didn't leave notes with his flowers.

_Sorry. Will join you soon. – Love JW_

Sherlock felt his heart stop. _It can't be! John wouldn't kill himself; he's stronger than this!_ Sherlock set the note down where he found it and ran to catch a cab.

Ten minutes later and he was standing outside of 221B, not for the first time in three years. He quickly entered, and immediately sensed something was off. "John," he called out, but got no response. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he feared for the worst.

He heard something in the bathroom, and burst in. John was on the floor, covered in blood, a razor by his feet. He'd cut vertically, Sherlock noticed, and felt all hope drain from him.

"John Hamish Watson, don't you do this to me!" Sherlock exclaimed, falling to the floor and pulling John into his arms. _I've got to stop the bleeding!_

He grabbed towels and pressed them against John's wrists, but the bleeding wouldn't stop. John was extremely pale at this point, and his breathing was ragged. His eyes were unfocused, and he felt limp in Sherlock's arms. "Don't you die on me John. I've waited too long for it to end this way!" Sherlock wasn't one to be ruled by his emotions, but even the most logic man will lose it if the love of his life is dying in his arms and he can do nothing to keep it from happening.

"John, please," Sherlock begged, his voice cracking. He pressed the towels harder against John's wrists, but it was no use. John would die in the next few minutes.

John finally seemed to see him. His breathing was extremely slow, and his voice almost silent, but he managed to say, "Sher…lock."

"I'm here John, I'm right here," Sherlock was bawling now, finally releasing years of pent up emotion..

"I'm… happy now. I get to…. Die in your arms. I'm glad I get to… die in this way…." John smiled, and for a fraction of a second, Sherlock felt as if everything would be okay again, until he looked into his best mate's almost empty eyes.

It was now or never, and Sherlock knew he had to act fast. "I love you like I've never loved anyone else, John Hamish Watson." He leaned in and kissed John's soft lips. He could have sworn that John said it back, but couldn't be too sure.

John took one last, sharp breath, and all life drained out of him. He was dead.

Sherlock gently closed his dead mate's eyes, and continued to kiss him, over and over again as he rocked John's lifeless body back and forth. "I'm so sorry John, I'm so sorry," he sobbed, burying his head into John's hair. He stayed like that, kissing John's lips, until they were as cold as death.

Sherlock Holmes gained everything through love, sacrificed himself in the name of love, and ultimately lost the most important thing in his life in the name of love. On his deathbed, at the age of 83, a reporter asked," Are you afraid of dying?"

That was one of the few times anyone heard Sherlock Holmes laugh. "Of course not. I'll be reunited with the love of my life. "

He suddenly got serious, and in his final seconds of life, said, "I've died three time sin this life- once when I was forced to fake taking my own life to save my loved ones, twice when the love of my life couldn't keep my memory alive any longer, and decided to take his own life, and now is the third one, where I will finally rest in peace."

Those were his final words. He died with a smile on his face, and an old, cracked watch on his hand.


End file.
